Marketry
by LondonBelow
Summary: Mark Cohen has overdosed. He begins to recover in the hospital, but stepping out into the world, he may not have the strength to make his life worth living.
1. I Wanted To Use Ink

I have posted this story before, but ended up taking it in a direction I really disliked, so I'm giving it a second attempt. The first few chapters are almost identical to the first posting, after which the plot will be quite different.

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**I Wanted To Use Ink**

but the pen ran dry,  
and the others are Roger's  
and I don't want to take from you, Roger.  
I don't want to take anything from you,  
not one bitten-ended Bic pen.

I'm not sure what to tell you  
other than that I hope by the time  
this graphite fades,  
you no longer miss me.  
Sometimes you meet someone  
just for a little while, someone  
you don't think about too much  
who impacts your life just so  
like your sixth-grade math teacher;

like the very beautiful woman  
who love you for just a little while;

like the rock star who let you  
be his best friend;

like the teacher who saw you  
as more than just a student.

I don't think you know, any of you,  
how much you did for me  
by letting me into your lives.  
You all meant so much,  
you were all so good,  
you all saved me, for the time  
there was to save.

You made things so good.  
You made the world so bright.

I want you all to know that I love you.  
What I've done is not about you.  
I know this will be hardest  
on Roger.  
I know Maureen  
will make it through.  
I know Collins  
will hate  
will be angry with me  
in ways he won't say, and  
I know Benny  
will be quiet,  
but he and Joanne  
will hardly feel the blow.

Probably Maureen, too.

It's okay, Maureen, that you  
think about yourself first.  
We all should  
take care of ourselves  
maybe not first, but...

I am not so vain  
that I hope you will remember me.  
I hope you will  
forget  
because I so love you all.

Let me fade  
with graphite.

_to be continued_


	2. What I See When I Wake Up

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**What I See When I Wake Up**

Is not too impressive,  
altogether.  
The room is private  
and there is a bouquet  
and a "Get Well" card—  
a tasteful one, with a pressed flower—  
which means I'm here on _Their_ dime.

Shit.

The walls are a white color  
that makes me think of vomit  
or a very ill man's fecal matter  
and I want a window  
and real live flowers.

My body hurts so much,  
all over, I hurt, I ache;  
my throat like I've been  
screaming, the same ache  
I sometimes felt after being with--  
I say being with.  
I mean giving oral to--  
Maureen.  
My lungs can't seem to  
breathe; my nose tastes  
something horrible and my  
elbow feels like it's been  
used as a pincushion.

All around me  
there are machines  
there are tubes  
there are monitors  
there are noises  
that hurt my ears  
droning,

"You  
Are  
A  
Failure."

They hurt  
and they tell me  
"This  
is what happens  
to failures."

On the other side of me  
a man—  
a man?  
since when?—  
sits in a chair  
slumped  
with his head in his hands  
I wonder if he picked that jacket  
because he knows I like it  
or if he does know  
that I like how soft it makes him look  
and it smells like cigarettes  
and mint leaves.

_to be continued_


	3. When He Realizes I'm Awake

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**When He Realizes I'm Awake**

First he stops looking at me--  
maybe I don't already know he was staring--  
then he looks back  
since looking away would be rude  
kind of like staring  
and he says,  
"'Morning,"  
Even though it's not.

"Morning."

My throat kills me.  
I reach for the water in  
the green plastic pitcher  
on the table  
next to bed  
ringed by pink cups  
the color of baby soles  
and a thick bracelet chains me to the bed.

"Here."  
In a stunning display of empathy  
he pours a pink baby's foot cup of  
green plastic pitcher water  
lifts my head--  
big hands, good circulation, strong fingers  
(but what guitarist's aren't?)  
if anyone wonders--  
and helps me drink.

Some of it goes down  
and some  
dribbles onto my white  
paper  
dress  
that I didn't put on myself—  
and I notice how it seems to cover  
all the hair on my chest,  
but emphasize the bushes under my arms—  
and he says, "That's okay."  
But he seems sad  
which is funny.  
Usually he would tease me  
about needing a sippy cup  
or a bottle  
or a nipple  
but this cup is a baby's anyway.  
A baby's foot.  
A plastic baby's foot cup.

He picks up a napkin  
(blue paper, not the color of anything)  
and wipes my chin.

I say, "My gown's cold,  
and my tit's freezing."

He says, "Okay," and pulls the blanket up.

I say, "I hate this."

He winces,  
says,  
"Yeah, well"  
it's your fault  
asshole.

_to be continued_


	4. And Then He Openly Asks

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**And Then He Openly Asks**

"Why did you do it?"  
Like there will ever  
ever  
ever  
be a simple answer for that  
or an answer he can begin to comprehend  
or like he knows  
he can undo it.

Or does he just need  
to hear me say,  
_it's not your fault  
_?

But what if  
a little bit of it  
actually is his fault?

What if(?)  
he can't understand  
I give the obvious answer:

"I  
want(ed)  
to  
die."

He winces  
but he knew that.  
He's not stupid  
at least not  
that stupid.

"Why did you want to"  
pause for  
discomfort and  
heartwrenching pain  
"die?"

I'd rather do things than explain  
like have a rectal exam  
given by the homophobic doctor  
the big one with ink on his pecs  
the overcompensating,  
probably-gay-himself  
doctor  
who thinks I'm gay.

"Can I have some more water please?"

"Why did you  
want to die?"  
he asks  
and he balances the syllables  
to scan the wording  
like lyrics to a song  
and he doesn't reach  
for the water pitcher.

"You know when you're onstage, Roger,  
how much you love yourself?"

At first,  
Roger won't answer. He  
also won't:  
look at me  
acknowledge me  
or unclench his jaw.

And probably a few other things.

But eventually, he admits,  
"Yes."

"And how a little bit of that feeling  
never fades?"

Grudgingly, "Yeah."

"Do you know what it's like  
not to be in love with you?"

He doesn't answer  
except with his frown  
and the way his forehead wrinkles  
and he says,  
"When  
After  
I used drugs..."

"You missed her.  
And it.  
But you never  
hated yourself.  
You never  
blamed yourself."

Flares, defensive,  
"She put  
that first needle  
in _my_ arm."

See?

"Do you know what it's like  
not to be in love with you?"

"No."

I shrug.  
"Me neither."

"Asshole."  
He stares at me  
first angry  
then he begins to understand  
and his expression changes  
and he says,  
"Seriously?"

And I look at him  
honest  
looking deep into his eyes  
and I say,  
"We're sorry:  
the number you have dialed  
has been disconnected  
or is no longer in service.  
Please hang up and try again."

_to be continued_


	5. We Had Hardwood Floors

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**We Had Hardwood Floors When I Was Young**

We had a lot of _things_, all of them  
just so, in their place, even  
my sister and I had our places.  
I hid pornographic magazines

underneath my bed. Rather than  
feel guilty, I felt a little bored  
because this should have felt  
daring, but it just felt normal.

I remember there was never any dust  
between the knick-knacks  
or on the books I was not  
allowed to touch. I remember

my dad paying cash to people  
whose skin was darker than ours  
and the way he always kept  
the grandfather clock wound.

But more than anything I remember  
the hardwood floors.

I liked to slide across them  
my socks unable to stop  
as I careened towards the wall  
at dangerous high speeds.

I remember the school held  
a special meeting, once,  
all about me and they called in  
my mom because they feared

I was being abused. But Mom  
only laughed, and told them I  
was young and restless, and  
the black eye came from when

I slid across her hardwood floors.  
"Better than any dustmop," is what  
my mother says, charming the  
counselors and teachers, as

I sit beside her and keep my mouth  
shut tight. The truth is I'm a great  
slider. I love it. But I'm so scared to  
hit the wall that if I think I will...

I always fall down first.

_to be continued_


	6. Collins Comes to Visit

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**Collins Comes to Visit**

When visiting hours have long since expired.  
Somehow he knows  
the nights hurt the worst  
when you feel  
like you should sleep.  
But you can't  
when it's so dark  
and you're so alone.  
Part of my mind  
thinks about horror movies  
until I'm lying here expecting  
a masked serial killer  
or clown  
to come murder me,  
but mostly I think about Roger  
how he sat there until he was told to go  
how he only said,  
"Good-bye, Mark,"  
and nothing else for hours,  
how he reached out to touch me  
then he didn't.

My throat burns  
continually  
and when Collins settles at the end of my bed  
I remember.

"Shit," I say. "I puked on you."

He laughs. He nods.  
"A lot."  
He doesn't mind.

Good.

"I'm sorry."

He waves it off. "No,  
Don't be.  
I'm glad  
you did."

"Glad?"

"You're here."

"Here?"  
I look around  
at the hospital with  
the fake colors  
and the cup made out of baby feet  
and shiny metal pan that froze to my ass  
(not really)  
when I tried to crap.

Apparently  
IVs  
are not pumping your veins  
with fiber.

"Alive."

I look at the baby feet cups  
because they are the only things here  
the color of anything in nature.

I wonder if the shrink realizes that,  
that everything is different here  
so none of it counts  
to the real world.

Collins pours a cup.  
He doesn't ask if I want it.  
I do.  
He's good at this,  
the way he holds my head  
only a drop of water dribbles down my chin  
and he wipes it away with his thumb.  
I almost tell him that,  
that he's good at this  
and good to me  
and I don't want him to leave  
then I remember  
why  
he's good at this.

"Next time—" a cautionary glance  
"—if there is a next time,  
If you don't come to me before this  
I'll kick your ass so hard  
you'll be a fuckin' sea anemone."

I know when I'm being threatened  
(I am not being threatened)  
and I know when  
I don't know what the hell Collins is talking about.

"What?"

"They crap  
out their mouths.  
It's not so funny  
when I have to explain it."

"Don't worry,"  
I promise,  
"It's still scary."

_to be continued_


	7. He Lights A Joint

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**He Lights a Joint**

takes a drag,  
then offers it to me.  
When I nod he settles it between my lips  
gives me just long enough to inhale.  
I cough and  
Collins helps me drink again.  
Funny there's no word  
for giving someone a drink.  
You can feed,  
or spoonfeed,  
but you can't _drink_  
someone.

Which is funny, too,  
because you can eat someone.

"I hear you came out,"  
he says,  
and I pull my thoughts away  
from what Maureen and Joanne get up to  
which I can imagine graphically  
and in great detail, after  
so much practice,  
"to Roger."

At least my  
therapist  
doesn't know about that.  
"Yeah."

"How long?"

"What?"

He puts the joint between my lips  
and lets me drink in the pain of  
loving bliss.  
The smoke burns my throat.

This time there's no water,  
just an amendment to an  
inquiry:  
"Have you been  
in love  
with  
Roger  
'rock god fuck me sideways'  
Davis?"

I blink.  
"Fuck me  
_sideways_?"

Collins chuckles.  
"While it is possible,"  
he lectures,  
going smart on me,  
"to position oneself  
horizontally  
for intercourse,  
what it actually means is that  
you want Roger to fuck you so raw  
the very idea of moving  
makes your rectum scream."

I blush.  
Sometimes I think Collins knows  
everything  
And sometimes I think he knows  
too much.

_to be continued_


	8. A Nurse Comes In

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson. Nurse Ratched is also someone else's.

**A Nurse Comes In**

And at first she's so busy  
she doesn't even see me,  
let alone Collins. Then she  
looks up, and hesitates,  
and she looks surprised,  
then she looks pissed.  
She says,  
"This is a closed ward,  
you will have to leave,"  
which I know Collins won't  
at least not until he's through talking to me.  
He doesn't say that, though.  
He just sort of smiles at her.

Very  
slowly,  
he blinks.

Then she says,  
"Is that  
_marijuana_?"  
looking the definition of pissed.  
She reminds me  
of my fifth grade study buddy.

She was seven  
and very bossy.

Collins  
regards Nurse Ratched gravely  
and says,  
"Ma'am,  
I have cancer."  
He rolls up his sleeve  
and shows her his arm  
and she gasps and says,

"Well…"

and after a moment  
she leaves.

I crane my neck  
to see his arm,  
and nestled in the crook of his elbow  
is a dark red spot.  
"Collins?"  
I say, my voice trembling.  
My chest feels wrong;  
I can't quite breathe  
and I can't quite think.

Nothing scares me more than  
losing Collins.  
"Are you…?"

And he laughs,  
takes the joint,  
and says,  
"Magic Marker."

_to be continued_


	9. When I Wake Up I See

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson. Nurse Ratched is also someone else's.

**When I Wake Up I See **

In a plastic pitcher  
painted with little blue  
Dutch people and sunflowers  
and it fits in the room because  
it looks nothing like anything  
that exists in nature.

Growing from the pitcher  
are half a dozen  
long-stemmed  
sharp-thorned  
white roses.  
They look beautiful.  
Sitting behind them, and  
infinitely more beautiful  
my Roger Davis  
in all his awkward glory.

"Hey, Rog."

He looks up, surprised,  
and says, "Hey, Mark."  
Roger shifts and his  
leather jacket shines  
wet with his drool, and I realize  
he must have slept here.  
"I hope I didn't  
wake you."

I shake my head.  
"No."  
My throat hurts. I  
need water, but I can't  
drink it. My arms  
are chained--  
not chained--  
restrained to the bed.  
And I'll be damned  
if I ask for his help.  
I want it  
I want it given freely.  
"How are you?"

"Fine. How are  
_you_?"

"You know, Roger…  
they assigned a shrink.  
You don't need to bother."

"Don't need to bother?"  
He is  
incredulous. "I don't…  
Jesus, Mark.  
What the hell, huh?  
What the hell  
do you want from me?"

I want his reassurance  
and his love.  
I want him to hold me.  
I want him to care.  
I want him to love me  
and care if I live or die  
every day  
not just when I show him  
he can't take for granted  
that he's going first.

I just shrug.  
Love  
doesn't come  
on a spoon.

"Thanks for the flowers."

"They're from Maureen."

_to be continued_


	10. Cindy

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**Cindy**

When you're a five-year-old girl  
you know you're ready for heels  
(even if no one _else_ knows it)  
modeled in front of the mirror  
stretched floor to forever in  
their closet. And the next day  
you can play puppies in K.

When you're a nine-year-old girl  
nothing, and I mean even temple,  
matters more than the clips that  
look like butterflies, and shimmer  
lip gloss. You can bake cookies  
(sort of) and play cards and hand  
games with singing songs.

When you're an eleven-year-old girl  
you know why Mom needs new  
pants and loose shirts, and nothing  
excites you more than having a  
new sister. Except maybe bragging  
to all your friends about her.

When you're a twelve-year-old girl  
you are grounded because you  
refuse to babysit, and lose  
telephone privileges, but you  
don't care. You don't mean to  
exhaust your mother, but you can't  
forgive your sister for being a boy.

When you're a sixteen-year-old girl  
you're better now—at least you  
babysit—but you do it to go out  
driving with your boyfriend and  
care more about practicing swinging  
your hips in front of the mirror.  
Scram, brat.

But you're not now, not a girl  
you're a woman, a big sister  
who must have failed,  
you think, as you stride down  
the hall with a silly gift and  
wonder if baby sister, who  
was born a boy, will ever  
be the same— no, you know  
he won't be, but at least  
you can hope he'll be  
okay.

The machines beep… beep… beep  
but to you it sounds like, Mark…

Mark…

Mark…

"Mark?"

_to be continued_


	11. I Keep My Eyes Closed

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**I Keep My Eyes Closed**

while Cindy walks around the room,  
investigating, checking the machines  
and reading the chart at the end of  
my bed.

I listen to her footsteps and I hear  
her wearing comfortable shoes.  
Rubber soles. Clacking laces. Cindy  
used to

wear heels when I was a little kid.  
She also wore push-up bras and  
bright lipstick in every color of the  
rainbow

and mascara. She dyed her hair  
pink or teased it like Cyndi Lauper  
and had to lie down to zip her  
stretch jeans.

Cindy had a lot of boyfriends, too. She  
had steadies, like guys she dated for  
a few weeks or months, and after every  
break-up

she found someone else. I was just a kid  
but I remember them, sort of, some of  
them, I remember a lot of different voices,  
different faces.

But it's not like she was a slut. It's not like she  
was ever mean to them, or to me. When  
guys gave her candy and teddy bears, she  
regifted

to me. I didn't have a lot of friends but I had  
the reputation of being the boy whose parents  
totally spoiled him. My bed was covered with  
stuffed bears

who told me every morning and night that  
they loved me. When Cindy wasn't out  
she would read me a bedtime story, but  
usually

Cindy was out. Mom just sent me to bed, or I  
would go anyway because I wanted to, and  
I would lie very still until Dad started snoring, then  
I'd read.

That stopped after I fell asleep one night and broke  
my glasses. After that, the school had another  
meeting with my mom. The funny thing is that as  
much as

I hate thinking about my childhood, Cindy never did  
anything wrong. She's the only one I can't  
resent who lived in the awful house in those awful  
years, but

now, years later, when Cindy comes to visit me  
in the hospital, I keep my eyes closed  
because it's easier than seeing her and remembering  
all we were.

_to be continued_


	12. Cindy Touches My Shoulder

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**Cindy Touches My Shoulder**

and tells me, "Mark, when you sleep,  
you curl around yourself. The deep  
dark place, you said, as a kid. You're  
not asleep," she says, and she's sure,  
and she's right.

"But you don't need  
to open your eyes. Just listen, Mark.  
Mom and Dad don't know you're here,  
and I'm not going to tell them. And I  
don't think you should tell, either."

Which is just how she would say  
we should keep a crime secret,  
like the dog we hid in the shed  
(I was beaten) or the broken  
vase (I was beaten) or the F in  
Geometry.

When in life is it ever necessary  
to use Geometry? I ask you!

"Mark..." Cindy sits on the edge  
of the bed. "Mark, I understand.  
I just wish you hadn't, that's all.  
I wish..."

I wonder if Cindy does know.  
I wonder if Cindy, if Roger, if  
anyone else knows what it's  
like; if April knew; what it is  
to live on the border between  
Czechoslovakia and Germany  
when you cower in the bright  
light because you fear the  
darkness, but you see it day  
by day, long enough to  
begin to understand, but only  
begin because a full  
understanding would mean  
madness.

You begin to understand that  
the darkness isn't there.

The nightmares about It  
taking away everyone you  
love, you realize, are only  
your imagination, or maybe  
a warning,  
from Mark  
love Mark.

Because once you understand the darkness  
you know why you're the only one to see it.

The darkness isn't  
darkness, the darkness  
is me.

Then Cindy kisses my cheek  
and leaves me alone again.

_to be continued_


	13. Roger Comes Back

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**Roger Comes Back.**

I've been freed of my restraints  
and am sitting up in bed  
eating a soggy grilled cheese.

"You look better," he says.

I guess I should say thank you  
but what comes out is, "I'm  
still in love with you." I hate  
saying thank you. Every time  
I do, I remember my mother.

She always prompted me, "Say  
thank you, Mark," and gave me  
a little poke in the back. Then

I refused.

It doesn't mean anything if  
you say what someone tells you  
to say. Besides,

Roger was just making small talk.

"Okay," he says. He takes  
my pudding, flops down in  
the visitors' chair, eating  
chocolate pudding off his  
finger, sucking provocatively.

I blink  
behind my glasses  
but he's still there.

I set down my  
grilled cheese.

"What?"

How on earth  
is this okay?

Does he not know  
what it's like to be in love?

Or does he just think  
my feelings don't matter?

"Roger...  
...what?"

"Mark, I could be pissed.  
I could feel betrayed.  
I could obsess about  
every little thing I say  
and do to you, but I  
don't want to lose you.

Besides, it's not a choice  
and I can't ask you to stop  
feeling something. So I guess  
it's okay."

I squint at him. "You've  
been talking to Collins."

He nods, but  
what Collins has taught Roger  
makes good sense to me, too.

"I want pudding."

Roger comes over,  
spoons up some pudding  
and sticks his finger in my mouth.

_to be continued_

_review? Pretty please?_


	14. I Ask Roger to Take Me Home

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**I Ask Roger to Take Me Home**

After I suck him off.

You'd think knowing how I feel  
Roger wouldn't finger-feed me.  
To Roger, love comes free  
from everyone around. So why  
should one little boy's feelings  
matter to someone who makes  
every head turn?

I bet Roger says no  
politely, caringly,  
feelings-sparingly,  
over and over every day.

I should apologize for making him  
say it to me. Though actually, he  
hasn't.

After I suck the pudding  
and dirt  
and saliva  
off his finger,  
I ask Roger to take me home.  
He says, "Mark,  
are you ready?"

I nod, because I am.  
"I'm ready," I say.

"Will you try again?"  
he asks. "I won't  
bring you home to  
die."

I blink. I shouldn't  
say it. I shouldn't  
even be thinking it  
but I am. I'm thinking,  
then I'm saying,  
"You did it  
for Mimi."

Roger gasps softly  
then lunges,  
shoves me down  
and leans close to me.

I shouldn't,  
but I get hard.

"Who are you,"  
he hisses, "and  
where's Mark?"

Then he takes my sandwich  
and leaves me alone.

_to be continued_

_review? Pretty please?_


	15. Alone in the Dark, Awake in the Night

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**Alone in the Dark, Awake in the Night**

Awash in dark shadows from every small light,  
I lay on my side, hug my knees and I shake  
knowing what will happen when I awake.  
I face another day of this endless round of lies,  
Mark talks and Mark acts and each day Mark dies.

Sometimes in thinking I see myself this way,  
as someone I see as he moves through the day,  
as someone I know as he wonders in the night  
how he became a slave to fancy's flight.  
I can't seem to think of this person as I,  
the too-known stranger who still wants to die.

He may be a liar, this man I should be,  
or maybe in fact the liar is me,  
but he lies every day to the doctor who,  
in my/Mark's defense, lies to us, too,  
when he comes in here and he claims  
that it isn't me/Mark who he blames.

Mark and I, we have our little internal spats,  
and sometimes he claims I'm just him going bats  
or at night when Mark would escape into sleep  
but I see danger in dark and a vigil to keep,  
but we agree that the care of the menally (here,  
at least) needs drastic improvement, it's clear.

They send us this shrink who wouldn't know  
empathy if it bit him on the ass (Mark says elbow).  
Mark, you see, is the one who blushes, the one  
who is shy and gentle, who watches the others have fun.  
He made me, I know, he thinks I'm a golem. He  
thinks he controls me, reigns me in, sets me free.

But Mark wants to tell the truth to that quack  
who sees him not as some new code to crack  
but just another pathetic little loser who failed  
to fail. Mark doesn't realize that we are here jailed  
and my lies will set us free.  
My cries will set us free.  
My rise will let us be.

_to be continued_

_review? Pretty please?_


	16. He Forgets Things

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**Roger Comes Back**

Bringing me my red sweater  
and a pair of corduroy pants,  
socks rolled up in sneakers  
and even a comb.

He doesn't bring me a few  
things. Some of them, I  
think he forgot. I think he  
fogot a shirt.

I would've liked that. The  
wool chafes my nipples.  
But I wouldn't tell Roger  
that.

I would've liked a razor, but  
Roger probably didn't foget  
that. Contrary to popular  
belief, today's razors are not  
used for suicide.

Today's razors are safety razors.  
To cut yourself, it's awkward,  
you make circular marks, wedging  
slivers of skin into the gap between  
your triple-blades.

Roger probably doesn't know that,  
or maybe he did and he just wanted  
me to suffer a little bit more.

I pull on the sweater. One  
strand immediately snags, as  
predicted, where predicted,  
and the fly catches a few  
pubic hairs.

The socks are damp and too  
thick for these sneakers, but  
that's okay because Roger means  
well. I dress.

Then we walk out of the room,  
and out of the hospital into a city  
where it's raining.

Roger hasn't said a word to me  
but he's taking me home.

_to be continued_

_review? Pretty please?_


	17. I Went to Graduate School

Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson.

**I Went to Graduate School**

Most people don't seem to know  
that I got two steps into a Master's.  
I made Collins promise not to tell  
because after I dropped out it was...  
it was everything my father said  
coming true.

Dad always considered me a  
liability. Weak. He recognized that  
his only son was weak. I thought  
he didn't love me, at first, but now  
I know he did. Does. He's just a real  
pragmatic kind of guy.

Brown costs money. A lot of it. And I  
did my best, I truly did. I was on the  
Dean's List. I even earned some extra  
scholarships, even though my parents  
could easily afford college. I was  
wonderful.

So killing myself is like theft. But then  
according to my dad, so is what I'm doing  
now. I'm not using my degree, my skills,  
my knowledge; I'm not using my education.  
When I work, which I usually don't, I film  
or do 20 hour weeks at the Kosher deli.

It was Collins who talked me into  
dropping out. He kept asking me,  
"But what do you want?" and I kept  
repeating that I wanted to be  
someone. And then I told him that I  
wasn't.

"But if I drop out," I asked, "what will I  
do? Where will I go? My parents  
are going to either kill me or disown me  
and I'll lose my job" which was working  
in the dining hall "and what will I be?"

When I came to live in the loft it was ultimately  
because I needed to find myself and I needed  
to grow up before I could get a Master's, before  
I could feel like an adult, beofre I was ready to  
go out into the world.

Collins told me there was a spare room  
at his place. This was before Benny  
moved in. It was before I met Maureen.  
Back when the loft was just Collins and me  
and Roger.

At first I didn't believe in Roger. I  
thought he was some sort of waking dream  
because people who look like Roger  
just don't fall into your lap. Later I learned  
that Roger didn't really. Because falling into your lap  
requires action

on your part. Roger was there.  
He was just there, and I could have been  
a piece of furniture to him, how I didn't  
talk much or do much. But if I had been  
someone who could act, make a move to him...

...would he have been mine, then?

_to be continued_

_review? Pretty please?_


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